


By the Queen's Will

by TwentyoneTwelve



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Politics, Power Imbalance, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 07:23:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11846736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwentyoneTwelve/pseuds/TwentyoneTwelve
Summary: Even before she became Attolia, Irene was learning the skills of diplomacy. To keep her throne, she would have to use all her training and wits. This is a story of one of her early battles against the Mede Empire in the form of Ambassador Nahuseresh.





	By the Queen's Will

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pendrecarc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendrecarc/gifts).



> Just as an FYI/ Warning. This is a political story. Due to the cannon and historical ish setting, I've tried to be semi realistic about some of the ways a male seeking power might try to gain it over a female character. I've kept things PG, but please if you have any personal triggers, be aware and be safe.

They had received messages three days before from the garrison on the island Thegmis of the Mede Ambassador’s ships, and a coded one the day before that from the newly installed Attolian Ambassador and his companions in the capital city of the Mede Empire.

Attolia Irene had returned word via Relius to the garrison that the approaching Mede ships could be allowed to directly approach her capital and the ports on the coast. They had discussed letting them land at Ephrata, the better to slow his approach, and allow them more time to learn about the Mede Emperor’s choice of voice and eyes. But that would also have meant allowing the man an opportunity to pass through the territories of several of her more recalcitrant barons, with no more supervision and or ability to intervene than that which was in the capacity of the densest of her guardsmen.

She looked down at the road, and the palace gateway hidden beneath the stone walkway they stood upon, and back to Relius. Like her, he stood in the shade of the stone latticework, his distinctive appearance hidden under a nondescript hood. It was no great disguise, but that was no great intention. Stillness was something she had mastered long before taking the man spying on her to be her instructor and spymaster.

"Ah. Here they come." He murmured. If possible even more motionless before.

Her soldiers came first – she had tasked Telus with careful selection. They would grumble over their reports- arguing as to why their captain would want such useless details as the shapes and sizes of the boxes they had seen loaded into a wagon for transport to the palace, and if the Mede Ambassador had refused to let any of them out of his sight. Telus would have himself observed the carriage and manner of the Ambassador’s attendants. The dock hands too, would find themselves plied with wine until their words spilled freely into the waiting ear of one of Relius’ spies.

It had been her idea, declining to send any of the few royal litters. It removed any expectation that she would have to come down to the harbour to greet him. A queen did not ride to meet a new ambassador, he presented himself to her.

“Hmmm.” Relius pressed his cheek a little more firmly against the stonework. “A smaller retinue than I would have expected – a basic household staff, and a personal slave.” His tone turned that touch wry that she had always associated with his unique mode of humour. “Perhaps Attolia isn’t the favourable assignment for ambitious Mede lords.”

“They sent us someone close to the throne, however.” Attolia kept her gaze on the road, and the straight-backed, forked-bearded figure now riding under the gate.

“Sent to us, or sent away?” Relius mused.

“In either case, we have no intention of trusting him.” She caught one last glimpse of the Mede, his hair coated in road dust, a thin, bent young man clutching several scroll and paper cases, dragged along in his wake. “He is the price for our foothold in the Mede Empire. The information Baron Hippias can give us should more than compensate for our necessary subterfuge. And in any case, dear secretary, as you and the Gods know, poison is more successfully administered in the cup of the man beside you than in one halfway around the world.”

*

Nahuseresh winced, as the pipes shrilled and the music grew faster still, rising in both pitch and tempo. The dancers too whirled faster, their shapes almost lost in the movement of coloured silks and the glint of light on hairpieces, earrings and metallic embroidery.

His eye was continually caught by a slender, dark-haired woman, clad in a flowing ruby-red dress. She had been partnered for every dance of the evening, and her cheeks glowed almost as brightly as her skirts. As the music and the dancers staggered to a stop, she clutched her partner, laughing and breathing heavily.

The red-clad dancer and her partner supported each other as they made their obeisance to a tall woman who passed by on the arm of one of the Southern Barons. The Queen had forgone her usual jeweled hairband, and her dress, while still sumptuous, striking and perfectly suited to the Archaic Goddess she sought to emulate in her ongoing attempts to maintain rule over the fractious country, was a dark garnet shade.

Nahuseresh gritted his teeth, watching as the Baron and the Queen exchanged only a few more words before he too bowed and left, to be rapidly replaced by several of the queen’s handmaidens.

He had known since dinner that she was not in her usual bright red, had watched her vacate her throne to dance. Yet, he had turned in a moment of distraction, to observe one of the men he had plans for. Glancing back to find the throne still empty, but guards still present, suggesting the Queen had not yet retired for the evening, his eyes had turned to the tall, slender woman, her hair curled and dressed, in a red gown.

They had shared some similarity of face, but that was true of many of the women of the Attolian court. The whole country was cursed with height and beauty, their features fine and symmetrical. At times, it made them difficult to tell apart. In the first months of his stay he could have sworn her personal Guard was only five men who never rested, her serving women compressed into one old, one feckless, and one other indeterminant female.

She and her coterie glided across the floor in his direction, and he stood to bow at her passing. Instead she stopped before him. He saw no sign of her apparent exertion save a slight rise and fall of her chest.

“Ambassador.” He bowed again, more deeply, his eyes tracing up to hers as he rose. Her gown had less of the goddess appearance tonight. Rather the neckline framed more of her pale scar-less and sun-less skin. The waistline was heavily embroidered and corseted – the embroidery little overlapping leaves that gave a fleeting impression of scale armour. He smiled at her, and the martial image she had attempted. But of course, a full court would be a war, and to her an evening of dancing was the exertion of a battlefield. “Charming, as always, Your Highness.” He praised, with another glance fashioned to be interpreted as appreciative. “I have been greatly admiring the grace and enthusiasm with which your court engages in these dances. Mede women are so careful to avoid exertion and its unpleasant consequences.” His gaze tipped sideways towards the couples retiring from the floor, most breathing hard, some fanning themselves or aiming their partners towards the open terrace.

“Perhaps you would enjoy the view from within the dance?” The Queen extended a hand. “A student with such an avid gaze must have a fair idea of the steps by now.” She lifted a single eyebrow. “Nothing so strenuous as that last, I promise you.”

“How could I refuse such a dazzling offer from such a beautiful partner.” Nahuseresh bent over her hand, pressing his lips to it in a drawn-out kiss. Under lowered lids he watched the gooseflesh and hairs rising on her arm, the tiny shiver as though she sought to snatch it back, and fought herself. He released her, offering her his arm as he strode out towards the already assembling dancers.

She had been correct – judging from the first notes, this was to be a slower dance than the previous, although that meant little by Attolian standards. He clasped her left hand in his right. On the other side, their arms met at the elbow, clasped forearm to forearm.

“Tell me,” Nahuseresh glanced about them at the other couples, many deep in conversation despite the increasing pace at which they moved. “Properly, what should one speak about while dancing?”

The queen smiled. “Why, anything they might fancy – provided they have no qualms about the entire court hearing, or of words going unheard.” This last point she proved, in twirling away, and for a moment dancing in a brief complicated turn with the Baron Kahlia, and speaking inaudibly to him. It appeared significant, judging by the Baron’s sudden change in colour, and the shakiness of his hands as he handed her back to Nahuseresh at the next phrase of the music.

“And if we were to talk?”

“I would ask, why does your secretary never make an appearance at any of the events?”

“He does, when I need him.”

She pursed her mouth in a moue of confusion. “But never any dinners, or evenings such as this, or hunts, or poetry readings. Surely such a hard worker is given time to rest, in appreciation.”

Nahuseresh snorted. “Would you give a favoured pen time to rest, in appreciation? Kamet is a good scribe and keeper of my chambers, but he remains a slave. He has his place, just as your soldiers and Barons and farmers all know theirs, and Your Highness, as you must realise, a man who understands his place is a better worker.” He had had to pause several times in his speech, for the dance had become faster than he had expected. He felt the sweat forming in hair and beard, his tunic dampening. It made him uncomfortable and unsettled. He would have rather been in his chambers. He wanted Kamet to read to him. He wanted to throw something at Kamet for his inability to move through the palace unnoticed by this aggravating woman. Her words came out without gasp or pause. It nettled him further.

“But surely you have noticed, Ambassador, that when a man is given opportunity to advance through merit, he will work tirelessly and make many sacrifices. Why, since allowing the Okloi to rise as high as they might, my army…” He twirled her outwards, her words coming to a stop, her lips pressed together for a moment as her wrist bent awkwardly behind her.

“Your Highness,” he brought her back towards him, speaking in a tone of contrition. “I have many failings as a dancer.”

She accepted this with a nod.

“But surely you must see that it goes against the natural order of things. Should a god take orders from a priest? Or a nobleman accept chastisement from a baseborn commander? Surely you see this in your daily life, how difficult it is for you to rule, without a King by your side?”

“It can be a great struggle.” She admitted, eyes modestly downcast. “I am fortunate in my advisors, and those who, like yourself have come to join my court.”

His legs were cramping, and he desperately wanted the cup of wine he knew Kamet would have waiting for her, but he smiled down at her. “And we are here to assist you, however we may, Your Highness.” He squeezed her arm, rubbing a thumb in circles against the soft inner flesh, holding her still as the dance came to its prolonged-- the musicians had deliberately extended it for his suffering, he was certain, although he was not yet sure who he would have punished for it—end.

The Queen looked up at him with a smile. “I certainly appreciate it, Ambassador.” Bright spots of colour stood out high on each pale cheek, but her breathing was no heavier. No beads of sweat glistened at her hairline, or pin crept out of place. Her gown hadn’t suddenly become too tight for a full breath the way his tunic and belt had. She was not clad in clothing damp and stinking with sweat, and he despised her for it.

He made his bow, innards curdling with suppressed anger. He would drink the wine, and then he would break the cup –gods grant his scribe had used one that the Attolians had supplied, and not the thin blue ones shipped with such care from his palace in Ianna – Ir, or the red goldglass from the continent—over Kamet’s head. He would savour the sudden fear on the boy’s face, and then he would instruct the slave to massage his newly tight muscles, and he would sleep.

Merely a third of the way up the stairs, Nahuseresh found his equilibrium returning. For all her preening and the point scoring she had attempted in that little dancing display, it was clear she responded to him. She had admitted her need for his help and advice, and if her physical reactions gave any guide, she acknowledged his overtures in seeking the vacant kingship. Perhaps this tedious stay in this truly gods-forsaken benighted land would prove fruitful. Perhaps it was not entirely a cruel joke on the part of the Emperor, to maroon him here, far away, while the children squabbled and any chance of gaining influence with the Heir dwindled into dust and dreams.

*

Attolia Irene woke to find Baron Brondite hanging from the palace wall. It was not the first time she had found one of her Barons executed without her order, and at least once in the past months it had been one that she had been considering the best-suited punishment for. In his case it had been a hardly subtle practice of sending spoiled foods to the capital.

But when Nahuseresh had bowed over her hand, describing how the food had been going to her own guard, and thus was an indirect act of treason, she had only thanked him for his prompt action, and kept her thoughts on his heavy-handedness to herself.

So, on the morning that she found Brondite displayed like a pathetic limp flag over her gate, she tucked the anger within the bodice of her green dress, and presented herself to her court as she did every day. Her face was as impassive as always and her hands held still in her lap, and her words boiled furiously behind her lips.

Baron Brondite was, had been now, an energetic man of middle years, and pleasingly unique among the costal Barons. He had been eager for the building of a shipyard and port on his land and had clearly seen the profit in being involved at the beginning, for he had volunteered to share in the initial cost. His demand that he be allowed to tariff both ships and the wagons that used his roads to approach the port had allayed her suspicions at his sudden generosity. Still, she had enjoyed her conversations with him, and his unexpected demise was a true loss.

Attolia took her midday meal at her desk, and sent for her Secretary of the Archives. As had become his regular habit, Nahuseresh presented himself at her chambers in the late afternoon, his scribe in tow. The man was laden with scroll cases, containing, as Attolia well knew from their previous meetings, detailed maps of the Attolian coastline. The Ambassador had informed her that his Emperor eagerly sought word on where the new centre of international trade would be located, in order that he, via Nahuseresh could establish treaties regarding defence of the vulnerable caravels and other ships as they crisscrossed the Middle Sea.

The Attolian navy mainly consisted of galleys. It was more than Eddis possessed, but less than Sounis. Her father had sought to rectify this situation with more garrisons permanently assigned to the islands, and she had pushed her yards to lay down as many of the quickly built warships as she could. But they were not suitable for the deep waters of the Middle Sea crossings, where storms took many more lives that the pirates of the Emperor’s concern.

These had been several of the reasons that Attolia had sought an agreement with Baron Brondite. His lands lay on the shore of the gulf of the calmer Ellid Sea, and promised not only shorter crossings to trade with the Mede Empire at the port of Sukir, but with the countries of Magyar and Roa, deeper in the Gulf.

Clearly her plans had been a less-guarded secret that she had thought.

“Your Highness.” Nahuseresh was consistently urbane.

It grated today more than she had expected. Her answering nod was sharper than she should have allowed. Her apprenticeship as the shadow princess had given her many strengths, not least iron control of her expression and movements. It appeared she was growing less disciplined. “Ambassador.” She greeted, worrying a pen nib between her fingers, her papers in a neat stack, unable to be read from his position, her maps tied into their leather case. He stared at the bright metal nib, almost transfixed for a moment. “Would you happen to know why one of my Barons is hanging from the palace wall?”

“Ah.” He regained both poise and composure. “I am afraid, Your Highness, to have to report that Baron Brondite was engaged in the initial stages of a conspiracy to have you assassinated.”

If it had been true, it would not have been the first time a lord of her court had moved from fantasising to attempting her death. It no longer carried the same weight and chill it once had. Once she had made it clear that she had no fear of own death, it had stopped being such an effective and attractive proposition for her Barons. “I see.” She made to gesture to one of the guards at the door. “I must thank Telus for stopping this plot so efficiently.”

Nahuseresh coughed. “I’m afraid the good captain was only involved in the commission of the sentence, Your Highness.” He brought one hand closer to her lamp, inspecting, she thought, the soft skin and neat cuticles at the fingertips. “If anyone is to be thanked, it should be Brondite the Younger. He and I have been in dialogue at some length, and when he found some papers in his father’s writing case that implicated him, he sent them directly to me, judging that his father would not have our regular correspondence searched.”

“I see.” Attolia kept her tone mild, idly stirring the little saucer of pen nibs with a finger, and out of the corner of her eye saw him relax in his chair. _They assume that when our hands are busy, our minds are entirely occupied at the task_ , the shadow princess chanted savagely.

Baron Brondite had suffered from a common complaint – an overactive heir. Brondite the Younger had felt for some time that his father’s lifetime was entirely too long for him to wait before taking full leadership of the estate. He had clearly found the Mede’s suggestions to his liking, and the accompanying gold even more so.

Attolia, of course, knew nothing of this, just as she had no inkling that three of her other Barons, including Ephrata – a clever feat, since as far as Relius was aware, Nahuseresh had never ventured north—had recently found their treasuries fortified with inexplicable windfalls.

“I imagine, you will wish to thank the new Baron Brondite when he comes for his investiture, Your Highness.” Nahuesresh offered diffidently. He had pulled a small bottle of concentrated scent from his waistband and proceeded to dab it on both temples, and in the fork of his beard.

“I will have to thank him,” Attolia echoed, the shadow princess baring her teeth at the victory. _Oh, so clever, Ambassador. But I listened every time that I was quiet, and I trust no one, not even the legislators you thought you asked so delicately_. “And thank him most gratefully for the sacrifice he was prepared to make for the good of his Queen. As you know, Ambassador, the property of any Patronoi who acts against the Crown is seized by the Crown. And Brondite the Younger does not yet own his father’s property, and now, never will.”

She watched with nauseous fascination as the little bottle cracked in Nahuseresh’s grip. Oil dripped onto his tunic, the room abruptly filling with the cloying honeyed scent he favoured. He stood, and bowed sharply, the glass fragments clenched in one hand.

“I shall have to find something for him.” Attolia continued, pulling papers in front of her and drawing the map from its case. “After all, he was loyal to me in revealing his father’s treachery. You know him better than I, Ambassador, do you think he will be suitable to oversee the management of the port and the anticipated trading tariffs? He does know the land well.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the prompt! I greatly enjoyed this story, and only regret (in many ways my own fault, and in part due to life) that I couldn't spend longer to really get their voices. I hope these little snippets of Attolia's diplomacy in her own right ring true. She is an amazing character and I can't do her justice. 
> 
> It was a really weird feeling writing from Nahuseresh's POV. I feel like I need a shower and to get the hair oil smell out of my nose!
> 
> Any suggestions for improvements would be greatly appreciated - and especially if there's any tags need to add.


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